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work of a paramilitary group like the Freedom Fighters.'

'Shit,' Nash said. “Shit! They must know about the idol.'

'It's likely.'

'Then we have to get there first.'

'Agreed,' Copeland said.

Race was just watching this conversation like a spectator at a
tennis match. So, there had been a break-in at DARPA

but what exactly had been stolen was a rays-

to him. Something called a Supernova. And who were these Freedom
Fighters?

Nash stood up. 'What's our lead?' he asked.

'Maybe three hours, if that,' Copeland said.

'Then we have to move fast.' Nash turned to Race. 'Pro fessor Race,
I'm sorry, but the stakes in this game have just been raised. We
don't have any more time to waste. It is now imperative that we
have that manuscript translated by the .time we fly into Cuzco,
because when we hit the ground, believe me, we are gonna hit it
running.'

With that, Nash, Copeland and Chambers moved off to areas of the
plane, leaving Race alone with the manu-

Race looked at the cover page again, scanned the rough texture of
the photocopier's ink. Then he took a deep breath and turned the
page.

He saw the first line, written in fine medieval calligraphy:

MELIS NOMINI EST ALBERTO LIIIS SANTIAGO ET ILLG EST MELIN[

He translated.

My name is Alberto Luis Santiago and this is my stoW…

FIRST READING

On the first day of the ninth month in the year of Our Lord 1535, I
became a traitor to my country.

The reason: I helped a man escape from a prison of my
countrymen.

His name was Renco Capac and he claimed to be an Incan prince, the
younger brother of their supreme ruler, Manco Capac, the man they
called the Sapa Inca.

He was a handsome man, with smooth olive skin and long black hair.
His most distinctive feature, however, was a prominent birthmark
situated directly below his left eye. It looked like an inverted
mountain peak, a ragged triangle of brown skin that sat atop his
otherwise clear complexion.

I first met Renco on board the San Vicente, a prison hulk that lay
out in the middle of the Urubamba River, ten miles north of the
Incans' apital, Cuzco.

The San Vicente was the foulest of all the prison hulks that lay at
anchor in the rivers of New Spain—an old wooden galleon no longer
fit for ocean travel that had been dismasted and hauled overland
for the sole purpose of housing hostile or dangerous Indians.

Armed as usual with my prized leather-bound Bible a
three-hundred-page handwritten version of the great book that had
been a gift to me from my parents upon my enter ing the Holy
Orders—I had come to the prison hulk to teach these heathens the
Word of Our Lord.

It was in this capacity as a minister of our Faith that I met the
young prince Renco. Unlike most of the others in that

miserable hulk—foul, ugly wretches who, owing to the shameful
conditions my countrymen imposed on them, looked more as dogs than
men—he was well spoken and educated. He was also possessed of a
most unique sensitiv ity the likes of which I have not seen in any
man since. It was a gentleness, an understanding, a look in his
eyes that penetrated my very soul.

He was also of considerable intelligence. My countrymen had been in
New Spain for but three years and he could already speak our
language. He was also eager to learn of my Faith and understand my
people and our ways, and I was happy to teach him. In any case, we
soon struck up a friendship and I visited him often.

And then one day he told me of his mission.

Before he had been captured, so he said, this prince had been
charged with travelling to Cuzco and retrieving an idol of some
sort. Not an ordinary idol, mind, but a most venerated idol,
perhaps the most venerated idol of these Indians. An idol which
they say embodies their spirit.

But Renco had been waylaid on his journey to Cuzco, captured in an
ambush set up by the Governor with the aid of the Chancas, an
extremely hostile tribe from the northern jungles that had been
subjugated by the Incan people against their will.

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